Idleness and Participation
by Avexl
Summary: Sherlock gives John the impression that he isn't interested in sex when they're together, but it turns out, like everything with Sherlock, to be a lot more ridiculous than John initially thought. Slash. D/s undertones.


**A/N: A long ass time ago I was given a joke prompt for a fic where Sherlock is literally too lazy to have sex. And I actually wrote it. Behold.**

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Sherlock is remarkably dreadful at kissing.

For a long time John finds it endearing; the first time they kiss John stifles little giggles of surprise when Sherlock's mouth lies unresponsive against his. John initially thinks his flatmate's just not into it, but Sherlock starts to make annoyed little grumbles of protest every time John stops. So John resumes to snogging his flatmate who returns with an almost hilarious lack of finesse. It doesn't matter though, because Sherlock isn't just some quick fumble around with after a few drinks—he truly cares about him, and he loves the rubbish kissing as much as he loves his brilliant mind, or ability to fall into trouble without even really trying.

He mostly opens his mouth and lets John do all the work. It's more than a little awkward. While this is all going on, John's hands will do the same thing as his tongue—touching and caressing; his careful hands stroking through Sherlock's shirt and hair and face. Sherlock, on the other hand, simply lounges easily, occasionally deigning to let his arms half-heartedly drape across John's shoulders. It's as if he possesses a fundamental inability to kiss; it's adorable, even if Sherlock would pull that angry face if John were to tell him so.

He should have known that sex with Sherlock was going to be as unskilled if he can't manage to grasp kissing. Mostly, Sherlock lies back and lets John touch what he wants, taste what he wants, whist Sherlock reclines and watches. In the end, to get any sort of stimulation, John has to ask Sherlock to touch him, feeling slightly vile like he's forcing the matter. Though Sherlock complies and takes him hand, his grip is pitifully weak. The rest of Sherlock remains spread out artfully across the bed. It's weird and awkward and Sherlock doesn't seem to notice, which occurs to John as a perfect representation of everything Sherlock. This repeats every time; sometimes he gets Sherlock's pliant mouth, which is marvellous. He even gets to fuck Sherlock a couple of times. And in typically Sherlockian fashion he lets John do all the prep, and the foreplay, and _all_ the movement. It's like everything else in their life—John takes care of everything. Which is fine. It's totally fine.

Except it's not. And John feels like an bastard for acknowledging it. The first few times, it was enough. John isn't a horny teenager any more, so it's not all about getting off. He likes that he gets to be the only one to see Sherlock undone and vice versa, he adores how personal and intimate it all feels, but there's something to be said for _getting off_. And being with someone who seems actually into it, rather than babying someone half heartedly through the steps.

"Sherlock," John starts delicately one day after the problem has been playing on his mind.

"What about our sex life?" Sherlock enquires before John can continue, completely _indelicately_.

John is taken aback and huffs out a ridiculous sound of protest, feigning shock, like it wasn't what he was going to say at all.

"Don't act like that isn't what you want to talk about; just tell me."

John is at a loss as to where to begin. "You know when we…you know?"

"Partake in sexual relations," Sherlock offers. "Fuck?"

"Yes. That. It's just that…you don't seem particularly _interested_ in it. Am I doing something wrong? Do you not enjoy it?"

Sherlock sounds hurt at the accusation. "Of course I enjoy it. I thought I made the feelings quite clear on the matter. Are you not fulfilled? Sexually, I mean."

This is far too normal a conversation to be having with Sherlock. It's oddly familiar as something normal couples do—talking about their sex life in a civilised manner—and Sherlock seems to be moderately controlled. It's unnerving—John's come to expect anything but normal from Sherlock. "Look, I love sex with you. It's great."

"But?"

He can't help but feel like he's about to kick a kitten or something; he's being far too understanding for regular Sherlock. "I know sex and relationships and stuff are all a bit new to you, but I feel kind of—kind of left out when we're together."

"Sex; new to me?" The reply came with one of those expressions where Sherlock is trying not to laugh because John's missed something obvious. "John, as new as a _relationship_ is to me, I'm more than experienced enough with sex. Believe it or not, I did have _some_ human interactions before I met you. You're well aware I used to have a drug problem; how do you think I came by the money for it? There isn't much money in consulting detective work, not that I got up to much of that then." Sherlock is completely oblivious to John's horror at that revelation. Apparently, telling your partner that you've done many things in desperation to acquire drugs doesn't sound like too much information for the consulting detective, since his body is transport anyway.

"Sh—Sherlock, just stop. Right. Okay. I just though…. Mycroft always gave the impression—"

"Mycroft doesn't even know that the two of us are in a relationship at the moment. Do you really think it was that hard disguising previous sexual encounters from my brother?"

John has somehow to navigate away from this conversation because he can feel the rather embarrassing subject making his cheeks burn. Most of the time John doesn't want to know what Sherlock is doing _now_; he desperately does not want to know whatever the hell he was doing before he had John to reign him in. "Okay. Fine. It's just in bed…you often don't give off the impression you're the most experienced." John is struggling to phrase this.

"Well, I am experienced. John, just spit it out. Is there a problem? If there is, tell me now and don't mince words. It's rather irritating."

"Right, well, er…. When we are together, having sex, you just don't seem all that willing to touch me." John pauses to decipher Sherlock's expression, which is distressingly blank. "I sometimes feel like I'm pushing you to do things with me you're not comfortable with or even interested in. It's fine if you aren't. We can stop having sex or whatever if you don't want; I still love you. I don't want to be making you do something you don't want to."

Sherlock lets the silence linger for a brief moment before replying to John's remarks. "So just to confirm, you think I'm not interested in sex? You think I'm asexual?"

"Yes."

And Sherlock's laughing. A long, deep snicker. "Oh, John, you are idiotic at times. I both wasn't a virgin when we met, and I am interested in sexual relations with you." The weird phraseology of the sentence makes it sounds even more awkward to John. "Does that make you feel any better? You are not forcing me to do anything." And then Sherlock snorts. "As if you could force me to do anything?"

"Okay. Good." John wishes he hadn't initiated this conversation now more than ever.

"I take it you have something else to add?" Sherlock's dropped the whole attempting-to-be-a-sensitive-and-normal-boyfriend demeanour completely and is near mocking in his tone.

"I just. You don't get it at all. I hate that I sound ungrateful, but you're never willing to do _anything _with me. I have to prompt you _every_ single time. I have been polite about it; I've asked you if it's something I've done, or if you simply aren't interested, which would have been fine by the way. And you just laugh. You don't get it at all. Could you explain to me why you don't want to touch me so I don't always fucking freak out whenever we're together? I'm not ungrateful—the fact that we have sex means something to me and I don't want to sound like a dick. But tell me. Please tell me. I'm sick of always having none of your attention. And don't take the piss because this is hard to say, because I'd like to see you try and be any better."

Sherlock actually pauses; he stops and ponders what's just come out of John's mouth. And John's feels silly for letting himself hope that it's going to lead to a polite answer. But he does. And it turns out to be a truly naïve hope.

"Well, I've never had to do anything with you. You seemed more than willing to stimulate yourself; I'd be an idiot for not taking advantage of that."

It takes a while to register what Sherlock's saying.

"There's so much energy I've managed to save by letting you do all the sweating and effort. And all that energy gets to be saved for more intellectual work. Don't feel bad, John. You've actually been rather useful."

And when he does register it, fury slowly courses through his body.

"You were using me. To get you off. You were being _lazy_," John says, voice eye of the storm calm.

Sherlock has the gall to roll his eyes. "It's not lazy when you're happy to do it, and that energy is being channelled into a more worthy cause."

"So let's get this straight," he begins, voice audibly sharper now. "You didn't want to waste your energy on me? Cases and experiments are more important than me, your boyfriend?"

John lets out a grimace at the last word. They've never defined what they are out loud—it's something they've never felt needed saying. And none of the words seemed to fit. Partner? Too formal. Boyfriend? Too immature. There's a lexical gap around what they are.

He isn't given a great deal of time to muse on the thought longer before Sherlock retorts. "It's not so much that you're less important. You're not seeing the full picture; some matters are more urgent than others."

"No, Sherlock, you're the one who isn't seeing the full picture. You treat me like I'm nothing more than your fucking slave most of the time, and do I get thanks? No. Of course not. How fucking silly of me. I take care of you completely—I do everything for you, and you can't even give me five fucking minutes of your time." The doctor's hands are slowly balling into fists as he talks; he's powerless of hold back his wrath at Sherlock's insolence.

"I am thankful. And I don't hear you saying you're thankful for the excitement I bring to your life. You still haven't properly thanked me for getting rid of your limp. More to the point, you're diverting off topic. What does this have to do with sex?"

"THIS HAS EVERYTHING TO DO WITH THAT, DON'T YOU SEE, YOU IDIOT?" There's only so much that John can withstand from the detective when he has this temperament, and Sherlock's pushed him beyond breaking point. "You can't even manage to treat me like an actual human being _when you're having sex with me_. Not even then. Do I really matter _that_ little to you?"

For the first time since the two began rowing, Sherlock's detached mask falters and John sees anger cross his pale features. "If you think that's a sign that I don't care about you, then you truly are a greater moron than I give you credit," he remarks snidely.

John launches from the chair and grips Sherlock by the lapels of his housecoat until he's crushed against him. With Sherlock's extra height, he towers over John, but his neck is forced to crane down to look him in the eye. John looks dangerous. Threatening. There's a ferocity in his eyes that makes Sherlock's joints lock together and freezes him to the spot; despite John's strength, Sherlock knows he has the ability to escape, but he _can't_. Everything in his body language is compelling him to remain utterly motionless.

"I'm not a moron; not at all. So don't give me this bollocks. You are using me, and you know it—with no consideration for my feelings. And I'm not having it."

All of John's senses are growing more focused, and there's a frightening weight about the air between them. Adrenaline floods his muscles, preparing him for a fight that he can see isn't coming. Sherlock's statuesque like this; his sharp features unmoving and fixating solely on _him_. It scares John a little how much he admires the look of shock on Sherlock's face.

"You made me think that I was pushing you, you know. That I was hurting you, and making you do things you didn't want to do. But it's not true at all, is it? You were just being a bratty little child, focusing on what you wanted. Not any more. You're going to focus on me now, aren't you? You're going to make it up to me."

He isn't expecting a response, but Sherlock nods his head in affirmation. It forces John's heart pound yet quicker. "That's good, Sherlock. You're finally listening. Pity you couldn't do that before."

"I—I'm sorry, John." This time, his sincerity is evident. But the fact that to get his full attention John had to do this raises his anger further.

"I didn't tell you that you were allowed to speak." He doesn't know where this is coming from, where this urge to get his own way for a change, rather than looking after Sherlock, originates. It's taking him by surprise.

His right hand lifting from where it's nestled in Sherlock's clothing, John pulls his hand up to tangle in the detective's dark hair, pulling him down into a rough kiss. His teeth grasp Sherlock's lips in a tight nip before opening his mouth. The noise that escapes Sherlock's mouth wrecks him; a small, delicate whimper that is so unrestrained, so un-Sherlock it makes heat crawl up his body. To his surprise, Sherlock's kissing back—tongue weaving with his, and gently caressing his lips. It turns out Sherlock's a fair kisser, when he puts his mind to it. John sighs at the thought that he's been putting up with his idleness for so long.

The hand that was resting on Sherlock's chest comes down to encircle his back, causing him to let out a low shudder. Sherlock's breathing is uneven now as John presses their mouths tighter together, pulling them further into the kiss.

"Get to your room now," John states like a military order, and he watches Sherlock's throat bob as he swallows sharply. It sends dirty little thrills up John's spine at the image. The detective staggers somewhat to his room, limbs rushing to follow his instruction. John smiles wickedly before following him.

When he closes the door behind him, he demands Sherlock strip. His trembling fingers shrug off his housecoat, but struggle with the buttons of his shirt and trousers. By the time he's taken them off, John's sat down at the side of the bed, fully dressed with his pants unbuttoned.

"Sherlock, are you deliberately trying to keep me waiting?"

"No, I'm just—" The dark look of disapproval renders him silent as he remembers John's order from before. He steps closer cautiously, not sure of what he's supposed to do. He stands facing John, though the position seems wrong. Lowering his head down in submission, he looks up at John with wide eyes, begging the doctor for his next command.

There's sonorous, purring lilt to John's voice as he opens his mouth to reply. "You're going to get me off now, however I wish, and you're not going to complain. Is that understood?"

Sherlock nods again, and his eyes darting up and down, assessing his body language. _Reading me,_ John thinks with a smirk. "That's quite enough of that," he croons before reaching up, and pulling Sherlock by his arms to meet his lips. He doesn't want him thinking about this, not when Sherlock can get lost so easily in his vast brain.

John makes a feral sound as he lifts his hand to Sherlock's throat and gently cups it, not applying any pressure whilst his fingers stroke circles up and down his flatmate's neck. Save the movement of his tongue and lips, Sherlock's frozen again in an uncomfortable position leaning down. John's free hand drags Sherlock forward and down until he's sat on his lap, his bare ass pressing onto the soft denim of John's jeans.

Sherlock's dick is most of the way hard, and he urgently tries to push himself closer to John's crotch in an uncomfortable position, to press his erection against John's own. "Ah, ah, ah," John hushedly chastises, kissing his way across Sherlock's jaw to push his mouth to Sherlock's ear. "Can't have you getting to this _now_. We're only just starting. You're going to make this good for me." John regards his flatmate's pale blue eyes, as he pushes the soft curls off his face.

The hand on Sherlock's throat drops down as the detective's lips press down against his temple. Sherlock's completely pliant like this; oddly relaxed and focusing on John reverently. His lax hands pull John's jumper over his head, mussing the doctor's hair slightly. He returns his mouth to the doctor's face, and scatters kisses down his neck and unbuttons John's shirt. John devours as much of this feeling of dominance and attention as he can get; it's relaxing, though it makes his heart thump faster.

Sherlock's palms rest at John's lap, whilst he sucks on the hollow of John's neck. "Oh fuck, God, yes," John exhales, throwing his head back. This is what he wanted again: the feeling of being wanted and touched and having someone else do what he wants for a change. A ragged moan slips out as Sherlock's thumb strokes up and down his cock, still trapped in his red underwear.

John lowers his head to see Sherlock's hand slowly moving towards his cock. "What did I tell you, Sherlock?" he says, arching an eyebrow. Sherlock immediately looks down guiltily. "Get onto your knees in front of me."

Fluidly Sherlock follows and sits in front of John; there's an intriguing grace about him like this, not at all like the frantic scramble of arousal that he usually has. "It suits you, doing what you're told." Sherlock shoots back a furious look of indignation that makes John know he's pushing it. It makes him laugh. "Take off my jeans, and make sure _I_ feel good."

Sherlock pulls them off, along with his boxers, before seating himself on the floor between John's legs. Slowly, he draws circles with his tongue along John's uncovered thighs, causing him to inhale sharply. Sherlock can be a tease when he wants to, it seems. It's riling for John to be only just figuring this out now.

Sherlock's hands follow his mouth and spider along John's skin before settling on at his hips. John winds his fingers in his flatmate's hair as he kitten licks his way along the shaft, lapping greedily at the slip. "Fucking tease," John shudders under his breath, as Sherlock rolls his tongue under the head. He looks up, smirking mischievously; he knows what he's doing, and he knows exactly what effect it's having. There's only so long that Sherlock could be expected not to try to manipulate John.

He did want to take it slow, he truthfully did, but Sherlock's mouth on him is making that challenging to recall. His hands slide down to the back of Sherlock's head, and pull him down, thrusting his dick into Sherlock's mouth. He sucks earnestly, swallowing down as much as he can. As he begins to move his head up and down, John swears profusely.

John takes reign of Sherlock, forcing him where he wants him, because he can do that now—he can have Sherlock however he wants, can be pleased however he wants, and doesn't have to ask for it and still go without, like he's always hated. He can take Sherlock's attention—that big brain of his—and make it focus on an action as seemingly trivial in the scope of things as bringing him off and making him happy. A mind that's wanted by bankers and law enforcement and royalty, often offering extortionate fees, is currently contemplating how to touch John. He lets out a shaky breath as he thinks about it. The power he feels in that moment running through his veins.

It's becoming increasingly difficult for John to think with Sherlock's mouth on his dick. His own mouth is running away with itself, babbling out anything and everything that crosses his mind. And that's mostly Sherlock. "You fucking like that, Sherlock? You like being told what to do? You do. You like taking my cock in your mouth like the slut that you are." Sherlock shoots out whine that indicates yes as he closes his watering eyes.

His hands, that are so tightly clinging to John's hips, cautiously move. He looks up at John, the great Sherlock Holmes almost shaking, and begins to move his right hand lower.

"Ask for it, Sherlock. If you want to use your hand, you're going to have to ask me."

John can see the resignation in his eyes as he pulls his mouth from swallowing his dick, and airily tongues at the head. "Please... John, please let me touch myself." It's evident that it's taking a fair bit of effort to swallow his pride and ask.

And it's so unspeakably arousing that he wants to see a helluva lot more of it.

"Speak up, Sherlock." John's voice is strong, despite the distraction of Sherlock's mouth, and dripping with snark.

"Please let me touch myself, John." Sherlock can't meet John's eye. He's closing his eyes and wincing at embarrassment at having to do something so simple. _It serves him right for making me plead so much, fucking hypocrite, _thinks John.

This game is one that John could draw out for hours. This is his. Sherlock has the thrill of the chase of something dangerous, and he has feeling dangerous and in control. "Touch yourself how? You haven't quite made that part clear.

"Let me touch my cock please. I want to make myself fucking come. Is that all right?" The tone is so biting and bratty, it demands John responds. He tugs viciously on Sherlock's hair, eliciting and growling yelp, and pulling him back to make him look John dead in the eye.

"I didn't ask to be sassed. If you had any fucking right to speak to me that way, you wouldn't be on your knees pleading to me anyway. Is that understood?" Sherlock pants in frustration and refuses to reply. "I SAID IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?"

"Yes. I—I'm sorry." John watches Sherlock suck down his pride once more. He lets out an approving mumble, and drags Sherlock's mouth to the task in hand; his lips delicately sucking on the head to bring him back to full hardness.

It's much gentler not the air's been cleared. Sherlock moves with deliberate care, and John sits back to appreciate how much better it can be with Sherlock active, how much he loves having him work for himself.

As he brings his mouth off John's dick momentarily once more, he bites his lip and resolutely begs. "Please. I need to. I need to touch. I need to touch—my cock. I need to. Please let me. Please."

It's a Sherlock that John's never seen before. And he just can't say no to him. He makes a frail noise of thanks as Sherlock finally grasps his dick, and returns to sucking on John's cock.

John draws his hand down, cradling the back of his partner's neck, as he licks and sucks on his cock, his hand moving rapidly on his own dick. The juxtaposition of franticness and reverence is achingly beautiful, and moves John closer to his orgasm.

The doctor pulls Sherlock's mouth to focus on the head as he comes at last, through gritted teeth. Sherlock drinks down as much of his come as he can, but ultimately fails at as it dribbling slightly from his mouth. John moves a shaky hand down, and wipes the excess from Sherlock's taut mouth, and absent-mindedly cleans off his fingers on the bedspread beside him.

Still chasing his own release, Sherlock lets his hand movements increase their vigorousness, and rests his head on John's still clothed thigh. "Please more. Please more. God more," he mumbles almost imperceptibly into John's thigh before he softly hushes him.

"Relax, Sherlock. You can come. Come for me." And he does, as easily as that, his hand gradually slowing to a stop.

John pulls Sherlock back up onto his lap; it's considerably more difficult than before with the two of their movements soft and weak. The pair kiss gently, relaxing after their release.

"I'm—I'm sorry if I overstepped that mark there. I lost it a little—I shouldn't have." The ever-caring doctor seems decidedly concerned as he comes down.

"It was... It was fine. Honestly. I rather liked it, actually." John smiles at Sherlock's somewhat bemused tone.

It takes a bit of manoeuvring, but John lies down the pair with Sherlock's head resting on his good shoulder. "Was a bit redundant moving to the bedroom, wasn't it? Didn't exactly use the bed. Could have stayed in the living room," Sherlock says, his voice beginning to gain the tone of smugness it usually carries.

"Yeah, well, I was planning on using it a bit more effectively. Got a little sidetracked. We can always go for round two." John's flirty tone is shot down almost immediately by Sherlock's amused snort. "Oh, yeah, well. I would have if you'd have known me back in my army days."

"Has the poor doctor lost his stamina?"

"Shut up. I'm getting older. So are you. And I'm still bloody good in bed and you know it."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"Shh. Ah, well. I suppose I should save up those plans for next time, shouldn't I? See, isn't sex so much better when you participate?" Sherlock grumbles, but clearly agrees. The pair are quiet now, taking time to lie and soak in the afterglow. "Hey," John starts up, "did you come on the floor?"

"Yes, I thought that was obvious."

John sighs. "For God's sake, do you have to make a mess whatever you do? You're cleaning that up, by the way. This is all to do with participation in sex, too."

"No, it isn't. And you'll be cleaning it up when you have to wash the sheets anyway."

"Fuck," John grumbles as he looks at where he wiped his hand. "No, you can do it this time. Otherwise I'll leave it till Mrs Hudson comes around and it'll give her a bloody shock. You don't want that."

"You're correct, I don't, but you're still cleaning it. Tea please, John."

"I am not getting up to make tea, I swear to God. Do it yourself." Sherlock lets out a short, hearty laugh. "You're doing it you know. I am telling you right now, you are making the fucking tea if you want it, you are cleaning up after yourself, and you are not complaining about it." John assumes his authoritative army tone. "Is that understood now?"

The detective looks up at his friend, raises his eyebrows, and smirks.

"Budge over. I am so finished with this. This is the last time," John complains as he climbs out of bed and heads to the kitchen. Even he doesn't sound convinced of himself. He knows he'll never be finished with taking care of Sherlock, even if it means him running him ragged.

"Four sugars, John," Sherlock smiles into the pillow.


End file.
